


i want to break my baby (hold him down, bring him down)

by tol_sirion



Category: The Witcher (TV)
Genre: Aftercare, Cock & Ball Torture, Dom/sub, M/M, Non-Negotiated Kink, Praise Kink, Spanking, Under-negotiated Kink, Unhealthy Coping Mechanisms
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-01
Updated: 2020-05-01
Packaged: 2021-03-01 22:53:36
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,982
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23954890
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tol_sirion/pseuds/tol_sirion
Summary: In which Geralt makes a wish, gets into his own head, and requires a firm hand to get back out of it.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Comments: 33
Kudos: 273





	i want to break my baby (hold him down, bring him down)

**Author's Note:**

> all hail sub geralt. please heed the tags. the non-negotiated kink is heavily present, but the unhealthy coping mechanisms are only mentioned. you can send me a message [on tumblr](https://etterklang.tumblr.com/) for details if you're unsure about reading.
> 
> i also twist and turn a little on canon. not heavily, just enough to fit my own narrative. just know that in this house, the dragon quest isn't going to happen bc geralt isn't going to be able to chase jaskier off and that's that on _that_.

Jaskier watches Geralt go.

Even from here, he can tell Geralt is tense, close to losing his temper, energy thrumming beneath his skin. It’s enough to make him linger in the banquet hall, ostensibly to help calm the Lady who so kindly gave him her handkerchief. He rights some chairs, picks up a goblet, and toes nervously at a dropped sword, but knows nobody will care if he takes his leave.

Still, he decides to give Geralt some minutes to himself, so he stays.

In the end he withdraws, because he knows he can’t give Geralt _too_ much time, lest the man drive himself mad with his own thoughts. He kisses the Lady’s hand with a smile and a wink, offers Pavetta his congratulations on her betrothal, and tactfully says nothing about any children or surprises. He’ll write a lovely little ballad about it later, somewhere Queen Calanthe can’t strangle him for it.

He stops outside to breathe in the cold night air and then hums to himself all the way back to the inn they’re staying at. He’s in a surprisingly good mood, even if he knows Geralt is going to be particularly difficult to deal with tonight. He has no doubt that Geralt will be there, though. Certainly, he could leave. Take Roach and run and never look back.

He did make his intentions of not claiming his sudden Child Surprise quite clear, after all.

But Jaskier knows Geralt very well, after all their travels together. Geralt is stubborn and hardheaded and a fool, who knows himself but doesn’t know how to _deal_ with himself, past the point of getting the bare necessities.

That isn’t to mean Geralt neglects himself entirely. It’s just that he does it too often, and Jaskier is trying to teach him that he doesn’t have to put everyone else ahead of himself all the time. It’s a hard lesson, and Geralt hasn’t grasped it yet.

And tonight won’t make it any easier, Jaskier muses to himself as he stands before the door to their room. Geralt invokes the Law of Surprise, asking for something of his own this one time, purely at someone else’s behest, and then it goes so horribly wrong. It’s going to be tough, not only tonight but also in the coming months. Geralt isn’t likely to forget this easily, suddenly having a future child on his hands.

Jaskier sighs, then squares his shoulders and pushes the door open. He’s almost surprised it’s unlocked, because Geralt has locked him out before, purely out of spite, or some other infernal feeling of self-hatred. He slips inside and shuts it behind himself, firmly turning the key until he hears the satisfying sound of it locking. Then he lets his eyes fall on Geralt.

Geralt is pacing, though the room is too small for all the things he must be feeling. He’s stripped out of the doublet, and Jaskier spots it haphazardly thrown to the floor. His hair is loose, messy like Geralt has been running his hands through it repeatedly. Even while pacing, he can’t keep still, hands clenching and unclenching. Jaskier can’t get a good look on his face, however.

“Geralt.”

Geralt spins on his heel to face him, lips wrenched back in a snarl, eyes full of fury. It’s a terrifying visage, but Jaskier isn’t afraid of him. Hasn’t been since after the first year or so, and Geralt _knows_ it. Knows this will have no effect on him. Still, it might be the only way for Geralt to find some semblance of control over the situation.

“Why?!”

He takes half a step towards Jaskier, then visibly tries to hold himself back. He’s breathing like a bull, like he’s been wrestling with a beast.

Perhaps he has been, Jaskier muses. Fighting himself must feel just like fighting a monster.

He doesn’t answer, though. Only waits for what else is to come. Geralt can mean a plethora of things with such a question, and Jaskier is trying to be delicate about how to handle him.

“You forced me to go, and now… _fuck_.”

He turns away and drags a hand through his hair again, a defeated slump to his shoulders. Jaskier wants to take pity on him, but he’s also not about to let Geralt blame him for all of the things that go badly in his life. They’ve been doing this for years, and Geralt still finds it easier to run his mouth than actually try and let himself feel something. He still thinks he can chase Jaskier away, after all this time.

“Do you want to try that again?” he asks.

Geralt glances his way, and Jaskier sets his hands on his hips.

“Because you can curse me as much as you’d like, but it doesn’t change the fact that none of this is my doing. I asked you to come. If you really hadn’t wanted to, you wouldn’t have.”

“I didn’t…" Geralt trails off, seeming to struggle with finding his words. “… I had to.” he finishes.

Jaskier sighs. Geralt hunches his shoulders in response, looking away.

“We are friends, Geralt. It doesn’t mean you have to do as I ask every time.” He gentles his tone a little. “I appreciate that you did, though.”

Geralt nods once, short. He’s not fidgeting, but Jaskier can imagine he would if he hadn’t suppressed carrying out unnecessary movements long before Jaskier was even born, and Jaskier wants to reassure him. They can’t pretend like this isn’t going to be hanging over Geralt’s shoulders for years to come, however. You can’t just forget something like this, no matter how much Geralt intends to.

Jaskier knows he needs to get Geralt out of his head for a little while. It isn’t the first time, and it isn’t likely to be the last. It’s taken them several tries, pushing and pulling and he has to try to gauge each and every one of Geralt’s reactions, which is difficult. Geralt speaks with his body, not his words, unlike Jaskier who loves to run his mouth but say absolutely nothing of importance while he does.

What a fine pair they make.

Jaskier crosses the short distance between them and puts a hand on Geralt’s shoulder. Geralt tenses all over and looks at him, eyes narrowed. He’s not intimidated, though. Not anymore. He knows the difference between Geralt being defensive and actively being out to hurt someone.

He slides his hand up to Geralt’s nape and tightens his hold.

Geralt’s lips part, like he’s about to speak, but nothing comes out. He stares at Jaskier, and his eyes are desperate, head bowing towards him.

“Okay?” Jaskier asks him. He has to be sure, because sometimes he hasn’t asked and that never turned out well for either of them. Geralt always needs to know what’s going to happen, so he can have even a moment to prepare. Getting him to lose himself to it and relax is a tricky road.

Geralt nods. It makes Jaskier let out a relieved breath, and he smiles, squeezes again, before straightening up and trying to be firm.

“Pick up your clothes, Geralt,” he tells him, “fold them. You know better.”

He doesn’t know if Geralt will be receptive, not yet. It’s a test, to ease him into it, should he choose to let go.

Geralt swallows hard, then shifts out of Jaskier’s hold and goes over to where he’s tossed the doublet. He picks it up and then folds it, placing it on a chair. He glances Jaskier’s way, and Jaskier can almost see him trying to hold back from being eager for approval, from showing any sense of loss of control.

“Good.” Jaskier says and smiles at him. Geralt relaxes before he seems to recall what is happening and looks away again. Jaskier clicks his tongue and sits down on the edge of the bed, stretching out his legs. It feels good to be off his feet finally. The evening was long, and dancing and playing and then being thrown around by Pavetta’s creepy powers isn’t something he experiences every day, anymore.

“Come here.”

Geralt walks over like he’s on his way to be hanged, stiff and with a raised head, shoulders squaring. Jaskier sighs, then holds out his hands and spreads his legs. When Geralt gets close enough Jaskier takes his hands and tugs him down onto his knees between them.

It’s always interesting to see how easy Geralt goes. Jaskier is under no illusion that he would be able to bring Geralt to his knees, should he not want to be there.

“I want to help you, if you’d let me,” he says, reaching out a hand to brush strands of hair out of Geralt’s eyes. Geralt leans into the touch of his fingers, and it has Jaskier smiling. He cups Geralt’s cheek, smoothing a thumb over his cheekbone. “I don’t appreciate you blaming me for things that are out of my control, and I know you’re already blaming yourself for making the wish.”

He sighs again, hopelessly fond of this big, dumb man who so obviously hates himself a little even when he shouldn’t.

“Sometimes you speak before you think, but it was only bad luck that left you with a child, rather than… say, a rash. Can people have rashes without knowing it?” He frowns, thoughtful. “It was rather poor wording on your behalf.”

He pitches his voice lower, rasping, in imitation, “ _Give me that which you already have but do not know._ Really, Geralt.”

“Jaskier.” Geralt bites out, glaring, and Jaskier uses his hand to lightly smack his cheek.

“Now, now. You could have ended up with anything. You’re almost lucky it was a child, and not, say… some strange disease. Who knows, with hedgehogs?”

Which is rather rude, because Duny seems like an alright fellow. However, he isn’t present so Jaskier can say whatever he likes. Geralt might appreciate his humor too, on a good day, but right now he’s grinding his teeth, so Jaskier shuts up before he does make it irreversibly worse.

“I don’t want to talk about it.” Geralt grits out, eyes firmly placed somewhere just past him.

“Well, then, what _do_ you want?” Jaskier asks him, eyeing him critically.

He is suddenly reminded of their conversation just before the banquet. It went something quite like this, didn’t it? Geralt claiming he wants nothing and needs nothing, even after all this time. Jaskier knows better, of course. Geralt does too, deep down. He’s never vocally asked for Jaskier to do any of this for him, that’s been a trial of grunts and questions and wordless gestures, but Jaskier feels as if he’s figured it out rather well over time.

Sometimes Geralt just needs to be taken out of his head for a little while. It’s never easy to get there, but Jaskier does his best.

Geralt is quiet for a long time, and Jaskier goes back to touching him, running his fingers over his cheeks and his nose, trying to smooth out the wrinkles between his eyebrows with his thumb, then carding a hand through his hair. Finally, he cups Geralt’s chin and tilts his head up.

“Do you want me to decide?” he asks. Geralt’s mouth tightens, before he nods. He still can’t look Jaskier in the eyes.

“Will you tell me if I do something you don’t like?”

Another nod, this one more hesitant and slower to come. Geralt is, and always will be, a people pleaser. It’s not always a good thing.

“Geralt.” Jaskier makes his tone disapproving and lightly shakes him by the chin. “Will you?”

“Fine!” Geralt snaps, finally looking him in the eyes before his gaze darts away. “I will.”

Jaskier eyes him for another long moment. He can never actually be sure Geralt will, but he has to trust that Geralt can be an adult when it comes to his own body and mind.

“You’ll tell me your word?” he presses. He’s spent far too much time in Oxenfurt’s libraries, reading up on what they’re doing, and even more time questioning the whores in various brothels, so he learned early on that they needed some form for communication that would stop it, should Geralt need it.

Jaskier has a word, too. He’s never used it, as he’s only had to stop the once, before they knew it could be too much for him as well. Geralt has never asked him for anything he can’t give, since, but Jaskier still sometimes worries he needs it but won’t let himself, just because Jaskier might not want to give it.

Geralt swallows hard, once.

“Blaviken.”

His tone is carefully neutral, but it seems to pain him. Jaskier takes a deep breath and nods. Leaning in to kiss him, he smiles, and it seems to lighten something in Geralt.

“Good. Very good.”

He withdraws then and pushes himself back so he can sit cross-legged on the bed.

“I want to spank you,” he says then, and makes sure he’s strict again. “Ten times, as punishment for not thinking things through tonight. You can choose what you want me to hit you with.”

Geralt takes a deep, shuddering breath and sits back on his knees. He nods, once, and casts his eyes about the room, looking for something Jaskier can use on him, then gets to his feet. Jaskier undoes his doublet in the meantime and rolls up the sleeves of his chemise, not paying him any attention. Geralt tends to get anxious if Jaskier watches him too closely while he’s doing this. Embarrassed by it, possibly.

He’s just toed off his boots when Geralt comes to stand in front of him. He wordlessly holds out a long strip of leather that Jaskier recognizes as an extra attachment to Roach’s reins. Jaskier accepts and smiles up at him.

“Very good.”

Geralt loses some of his tension, seemingly pleased, and Jaskier gets to his feet, considering.

“Okay. Pants and boots off, then get on the bed. All fours.”

Geralt is quick to comply, but he makes sure to set both items away neatly, then does the same with Jaskier’s own doublet and boots.

“Good,” Jaskier praises, because it is good that Geralt learns, “but don’t think that’ll get you out of anything.”

All he gets in reply is a grunt as Geralt settles himself into position on the bed, and he rolls his eyes, walking around the end of the bed so he’s facing Geralt’s ass.

“Eloquent as ever.” he states, knowing Geralt won’t reply.

Winding the leather around his arm to get an appropriate length, he tests it on the air. The sound of it makes Geralt jerk on the bed, and Jaskier eyes him.

“It’ll hurt.” he warns.

“That is the point.” Geralt replies, head hanging down between his shoulders.

“Hm.” Jaskier isn’t happy, but he knows it’s true. The pain is more a punishment than the act itself, and he’s had that particular discussion with Geralt more times than he can count. Geralt will act self-deprecating and Jaskier will tell him not everything in life has to be about pain, and Geralt will just grunt and hum and growl his way until he stops.

Well. No sense beating a dead horse. This is what it takes to get Geralt to the point where he forgets about what is going on outside of the room, and Jaskier will almost always be willing to get him there.

“Alright. I’ll start.” he says, and watches Geralt brace himself.

The first hit is merely a warmup, as is the second, one quick lash against each of Geralt’s buttocks. Geralt inhales sharply, but neither tenses up nor relaxes after. The skin reddens, and Jaskier follows up with a harder hit, increasing in strength. Geralt shifts, fingers curling and uncurling in the bedding, hips rising up to meet the leather when he hears it coming.

The tenth hit comes with a sharp crack over the indent of where his ass and thigh meet, and Geralt gasps. Jaskier drops the leather and lets it dangle from his wrists, smoothing his hands up and down the reddened skin. It won’t last long, but for now it feels hot to the touch. He hums, considering, and presses with his fingernails to drag white lines through it.

Geralt pushes his head down into the pillow, and Jaskier smiles.

“You took them very well,” he begins, tapping a fingertip against his chin in thought, “but I do believe you need more. Ten more hits. Count them, this time. If you don’t, I’ll start over.”

Geralt nods, a sharp jerk of his head, so Jaskier grips the leather and begins anew. Geralt counts dutifully, but his voice turns grittier and grittier as Jaskier puts more force into the hits, striping welts over his ass.

“ _Nine_.” Geralt squirms as Jaskier lashes over both his buttocks at once. He’s sweating a little, a fine sheen over his skin, and Jaskier tries to ignore the throb of his own cock at the sight.

Geralt’s legs have spread, showing his balls and his cock, half hard where it hangs, and it’s not quite a conscious decision for the final hit to strike over his balls, but Geralt’s reaction is all the more beautiful for it. His breath leaves him in a rush, and he scrabbles to close his legs and protect his privates.

Jaskier’s mouth waters at the sight. He swallows hard and waits.

“Ten.” Geralt finally says, voice hoarse.

Jaskier unwinds the leather strap and lets it fall to the floor.

“You took it so well,” he says, and he _is_ a little awed. He shuffles onto his knees on the bed to get close, smoothing his hands once again over where the reddened skin now practically burns underneath his palms.

Geralt loses the tension at the praise, gasping a little as he slumps down, and Jaskier croons at him, rubbing over one of the welts left behind.

“I know you can take it, but you do it so well. Never complaining. Good boy.”

He slides his hands down to Geralt’s thighs and pulls a little. “Come on, show me, hmm? I didn’t mean to hit your balls, but it was so gorgeous. Show me like a good boy would, Geralt.”

Geralt spreads his legs. His balls are reddened where Jaskier hit him, but his cock is fully hard, and Jaskier sighs at the sight. He hefts them in his hand, cupping and rubbing gently with his thumb.

“You really liked that, huh?” he asks. Getting your balls flogged doesn’t sound like it’s much of a good time, but Geralt really just never ceases to amaze him. “Maybe that is what you need, hmm? Getting your cock slapped until it weeps? Your balls squeezed until they swell?”

One of his favorite nighttime ladies in Toussaint did once ask if she could do it to him, if it was something he might enjoy, after she had another customer who very much did. He had respectfully declined, but perhaps he ought to have let her. She had murmured to him about it even as he had put his mouth on her, and he hadn’t dissuaded her from it, but he never paid close attention. He regrets it a little now, watching a fat drop of precome leak from Geralt’s cock onto the bedding.

Hm. He really ought to have put a bath sheet down, or something. He will have to pay extra for the stains.

Geralt has gone still under his hands, and Jaskier is only a little worried. But Geralt hasn’t as much as attempted to say his word, and so Jaskier powers on, more than happy to turn this situation to his advantage.

“Come on, turn around. Let me see all of you.”

“Jaskier.”

Geralt sounds _wrecked_ , and Jaskier grins. Good. It’s exactly what he wants. He schools his expression as much as he can, and smacks Geralt’s flank with his free hand, and with the one still holding Geralt’s balls he squeezes, just so.

“I’m not asking.”

Geralt shivers but then turns around, and Jaskier lets go of him to give him free reign of his movement. He lays down on his back, legs coming together like he wants to try and hide. His arm is over his face, covering his eyes, and Jaskier shakes his head and pushes hard on Geralt’s thighs to get him to spread them.

“I said I wanted to see all of you. Do _not_ make me repeat myself again.”

Geralt gasps a little but pulls his arm away with some effort, resting it above his head instead. His legs stretch out, and Jaskier smiles at him and shuffles into his lap. Geralt watches him keenly, but there’s a flush in his cheeks and his eyes are bright.

“You’ve done so good,” Jaskier tells him and presses a kiss to the tip of his nose. “But I know you can do better.”

Geralt nods almost eagerly before he catches himself and tries to school his expression as well. Jaskier shakes his head but brushes their mouths together. Geralt tilts his head up when he pulls away, trying to chase his mouth, and it’s so tempting to give in, but he is a man on a mission so he sits up instead.

“I want to slap your cock.” he states, and Geralt’s eyes widen a little.

“You were serious?” he says, finding his voice.

Jaskier raises his eyebrows. “Of course. When am I ever not serious about the things I say?”

Geralt gives him a look, and Jaskier huffs.

“ _Well_ , if you can give me that attitude after I strapped your balls then you can definitely take my knuckles to your cock.” He tilts his head, considering. “You know the rules, Geralt. If you don’t want me to do something, you tell me, as you promised.”

Geralt squeezes his eyes shut, nodding once, sharp and short.

“Can you take it without trying to stop me, or do you need me to tie your hands?” Jaskier wants to know. Geralt glances up at him and seems to seriously ponder the question, but then he shakes his head.

“Without.”

Jaskier nods. “Okay. Both hands above your head. Grip your wrists.”

Geralt raises his arms and grips his own wrists, and Jaskier shuffles down between his legs, urging him to spread them. “I’m gonna hit your cock until I’m satisfied. You’re allowed to come if you need to.”

Geralt chews on his lip, eyes on the ceiling, and Jaskier knows what he wants to ask. Still, he waits it out. He’s happy to voice Geralt’s thoughts for him on a good day, but sometimes he wants to push him to the point where he needs to speak them himself. He busies himself running his hands up and down Geralt’s thighs, dragging through the coarse hair and rubbing his thumbs over the crease of his thighs, keeping away from where he’s still hard, after all of this.

“Do you want me to come?” Geralt finally asks, and it sounds pained coming from him, like he really doesn’t want to say it out loud.

He tilts his head down so their eyes meet briefly, though they flicker like he’s unable to really look at Jaskier for long. Jaskier sighs and gives his leg a brief squeeze.

“It doesn’t matter much to me,” he says with a shrug, even if watching Geralt come is always lovely. “I just won’t punish you if you do. You got so hard just from me hitting you once, I know you’re going to want to.”

“Know me well, do you?” Geralt growls, tossing his head against the pillow. The frustration is normal, and Jaskier is too used to it for it to affect him.

“Yes, as a matter of fact.” he replies.

Geralt doesn’t protest, and Jaskier urges him to part his legs further so he can comfortably settle cross-legged. It leaves Geralt spread almost obscenely, and Jaskier takes a moment to delight in the sight before he takes hold of Geralt’s cock to press it down against his stomach. Geralt twitches despite his efforts to remain in control.

Jaskier has several plans to change that.

He tilts his head, considers, and then raises his hand slightly, enough so Geralt can notice. Geralt’s eyes widen, nostrils flaring, and then Jaskier lets two of his knuckles smack across his cock. Geralt gasps, twisting his hips to get away, and Jaskier is quick to soothe him, using the same fingers to rub up and down Geralt’s cock almost lovingly.

“There you go,” he hums. “That wasn’t so bad, was it?”

Geralt grits his teeth and tosses his head on the pillow, fingers clenching and unclenching.

“Get on with it.”

Jaskier clicks his tongue in disapproval, and Geralt stills, some of the shame finally apparent on his face. Jaskier thrives on reading people, and his goal is always to leave Geralt open and loose like a well-read book at the end of the night.

Jaskier hits his cock with an open palm, then again before Geralt can really feel it, two quick strikes, and then soothes over it again, cupping his balls gently and bending down so he can press a quick kiss to the tip, dragging his tongue over the moisture beading there before he sits back up. Geralt squirms a little, not looking at him, but Jaskier doesn’t mind.

He doesn’t know how much Geralt can take of this, and he’s trying not to hit too hard in the beginning, wanting to get a proper feel of it, but Geralt is behaving so sweetly that Jaskier wants to keep going and see how far he can really take it before Geralt has enough. Jaskier knows Witchers can cry, Geralt has told him so, but he’s never seen it.

He wonders if this is what it will finally take for it to happen.

The thought spurs him on, and he backhands Geralt’s cock sharply, watching as it slaps against Geralt’s hip, fat and heavy. The sound punches out of Geralt’s throat before he can stop it, a bitten off groan, and Jaskier’s eyes dart up to his face to see. Geralt doesn’t look like he wants him to stop, so he doesn’t.

Another strike, this time to the opposite side, and then another, and then, when Geralt might think he knows what’s happening, Jaskier changes his angle and smacks his hand against Geralt’s balls instead where they hang full and heavy between his legs.

Geralt jumps, nearly going up into a sitting position before he somehow dredges Jaskier’s command through his fuzzy mind and forces himself back down. He’s panting now, chest rising and falling, and if Jaskier put a hand there he thinks he might feel Geralt’s heart beating human-fast.

He does it again, noting how Geralt’s arching, and then cups his balls again, soothing him with a soft rub.

“How do you feel?” he asks, leaning up a little. Geralt shifts, and there’s a tremble in his thighs, like he wants to close them to avoid the assault.

“I don’t– don’t _know_ ,” he spits. “Jaskier.”

“I’ve got you,” Jaskier says, free hand stroking Geralt’s cock once, twice. He’s hard, despite the beating, and it’s _fascinating_. “Can you take more?”

Geralt nods, opening his eyes to look down at him. His pupils are round and dark, lips red from his teeth, bleeding a little where one sharp fang has nicked his lower lip.

“Alright,” Jaskier says, and smiles. “You know what to do.”

Geralt grips the sheets firmly in his hands, keeping them crossed, and Jaskier settles back down and considers. Then he grips Geralt hard, squeezing his balls tightly in his hand while he smacks his cock, glancing off the tip.

Geralt _howls_ , back arching off the bed, and it takes Jaskier enough by surprise that he lets go, for a moment worried he’s done him some irreparable damage.

“Again!” Geralt snaps before he’s even fully pulled back, his thighs properly shaking now. His cock is so, so red and hot to the touch, and his balls are no better. “Don’t be a coward.”

And he’s being testy on purpose, he must be, to be mouthing off like this. Jaskier doesn’t appreciate it.

He returns to where he was, gripping Geralt’s balls tight and pulling, watching his cock twitch against his belly, and, to his wonder, leak more clear precome, slick over the fine hairs trailing from his navel. He lets go, pulling on Geralt’s cock and letting it smack against his stomach, and then slaps it again. Geralt grunts and squirms, and Jaskier hears the sound of fabric tearing. A quick glance shows him that Geralt has effectively ruined the bedsheets with his nails.

Jaskier merely hums at that, and Geralt seems to relax when he’s not chastised for it.

“Five more,” Jaskier tells him then. He doesn’t want to actually leave any lasting damage, even if Geralt could take more.

And then he lands four of them in quick succession, slapping Geralt’s cock back and forth, hard enough to bounce off his hips with each one, droplets of precome splattering over his skin. Jaskier is watching his face more than what he’s doing at the moment, seeing how eyebrows are scrunched, mouth open while he gasps, and he’s twitching, shuddering under Jaskier’s hands. But he’s not stopping him.

He pauses momentarily, and then lands the fifth and final hit, and he doesn’t hold back any strength. The sound leaving Geralt is somewhere between a shout and a moan, head thrown back, and as Jaskier watches, his cock twitches and twitches as he starts to come.

It’s slow and sluggish, dripping out of him, rather than how he usually comes, which is hard and fast. It’s still a lot, though, pooling in his navel, sticking to the hairs of his groin, and then sliding down into the bed. Jaskier is in awe and strokes Geralt’s thighs, momentarily stunned.

Then he finds his tongue.

“Oh my god,” he says and licks his lips. He finds himself throbbing with hot want, his cock absolutely aching in his smalls, but he can’t look away or take his hands off of Geralt. “That’s so hot, fuck.”

Geralt’s breath is hitching, and Jaskier has to force himself to look up. He finds Geralt has tilted his head to the side, cheek pressed to the pillow, and his eyelashes are wet. He’s not crying, not properly, but it’s clear he’s overwhelmed.

“Oh, Geralt,” Jaskier coos, finally shifting aside and moving up until he can press all along Geralt’s side, stroking his hand over his chest. “It’s alright. That was amazing, I can’t believe you actually came from that.”

Geralt groans, but lets himself be moved when Jaskier urges him to do so, until he’s on his side with his face tucked against the hollow of Jaskier’s throat, and Jaskier hums and strokes a hand up and down his back, his side, pressing kisses to his hair.

“I’m so pleased, you did so wonderfully well,” Jaskier continues, eager to heap praise upon him while Geralt still lets him. “You looked so lovely, your cock was so red, and watching you leak like that… Gods, Geralt. Next time I want you in my mouth while you do.”

Geralt shudders and pushes his cock against Jaskier’s hip. His cock is hard still – it can’t possibly have gone down and then gone hard again, and Jaskier pulls back to blink at him, astonished.

It seems to embarrass him, because Geralt pulls him back so he can hide his face again. He can’t blush, despite everything, but Jaskier knows that if he had the ability, he would be redder than his cock is right now. As it is, he feels a little bit of wetness as eyelashes brush his skin, but he doesn’t mention it. It’s perhaps as close to crying as Jaskier can hope to get him, and he basks in knowing _he_ did that.

“Is that right?” he hums and moves his hand down to curl around Geralt’s cock. He must be so sensitive, because he jerks his hips immediately but only succeeds in pushing his cock further into Jaskier’s loose grip. “Was it not enough, darling Witcher? Do I need to put you in your place, still?”

“No.” Geralt’s voice sounds raw.

“No? Did you learn, then?”

“Yes.”

“Hm. I’m inclined to believe you this once, if only because no man can lie after getting their cock and balls beaten and bruised.”

Not that Geralt is a man, in the common sense.

Geralt bites him as if to agree, teeth sharp against his neck, and Jaskier hisses and pulls his hair.

Then he urges Geralt onto his back and sits astride his thighs, taking in the sight of him. As much as Geralt prides himself in remaining composed, he’s far from it now. Eyes wet, hair a mess from the continuous tossing, his cock still red and come smeared over his stomach. It’s hot, and Jaskier finally shifts around and gets his final clothes off, chemise and smallclothes both, until he’s as naked as Geralt is.

Geralt watches him, pupils still blown wide, looking a little dazed despite his best effort.

“What a sight you make,” Jaskier says, unable to keep himself from sounding fond. He rubs and pinches Geralt’s nipples, squeezing his pecs to get a good feel, then strokes through the mess of come to gather what hasn’t dried so he can squeeze his own cock.

He groans at the feeling, tilting his head back and is unable from fucking into his own fist for a moment. Now that his focus isn’t entirely on Geralt, he can’t keep from jerking himself off, so close to the edge his thighs squeeze around Geralt’s with every pull.

“Watch,” he snaps when he feels Geralt’s hand brush over his thigh, opening his eyes and looking at Geralt’s guilty expression as his hand retreats. “Do you think you’ve earned the right to touch me?”

“Yes,” Geralt says, and he sounds… petulant, almost. Jaskier never denies him from touching, usually. “I’ve been good all night.”

“Hm.” Jaskier says, slowing his stroking because he’s going to come way too fast like this. “Tell me.”

Geralt swallows, eyes darting down to Jaskier’s cock. Jaskier snaps his fingers, and he quickly looks back up, gripping the sheets again so he doesn’t grab onto Jaskier like he so clearly wants.

“I’ve been…” He closes his eyes, struggling for a moment. He _knows_ what Jaskier wants to hear, but it’s always such a struggle to get it out of him.

Jaskier strokes himself, tight from base to tip and groans, and it’s enough to spur Geralt on.

“I’ve been a good boy.”

It comes forced, nearly spit from his swollen lips.

“ _Oh_.” Jaskier shivers, a full-body tremble that leaves his toes tingling, and comes with a moan. He tries to make sure he comes all over Geralt’s hard cock, angling down, and Geralt’s cock twitches at the sensation.

Geralt groans and his hands latch onto Jaskier’s hips, gripping tight. Jaskier doesn’t chastise him, can’t, when he’s so busy trying to remain upright while the pleasure washes through him. He slumps finally, panting as he draws his hand away from his cock, swiping over Geralt’s to wet it. He holds it out, dripping onto Geralt’s chest.

“Have at.”

Geralt grips his wrist and pulls his hand to his mouth, tongue immediately laving over his palm, between his fingers, staining his tongue milky-white. He lets go when Jaskier pulls his hand back, but he’s clearly reluctant about it, and Jaskier takes some pity on him.

“You can touch yourself. Let me see you come, Geralt.”

Geralt immediately grips his own cock and starts to jerk himself off. He hisses under his breath, like every touch hurts, and it must surely, with how abused his cock is. Jaskier is nearly proud of his own work. He’s _definitely_ proud of Geralt.

“I can’t believe how good you’ve been, letting me do all those things to you,” he offers.

He’s tired, but he can give Geralt this. Geralt aches for the praise, even if he gets defensive almost every time Jaskier offers it to him. Not now, though. Now he’s only focused on the words falling from Jaskier’s mouth and on getting himself off.

“You’re so pretty, Geralt. The prettiest, with that lovely mouth stained with my come and your eyes all wet. Did it feel good? Letting yourself go? I bet it did.”

Geralt groans, eyes closing briefly before he forces them back open. He doesn’t want to look away, it seems, and Jaskier smiles, pleased with him.

“And then watching you come all over yourself like that… fuck, I want to see it again. Weak like a pup and unable to stop yourself. You’re such a good boy. Let me see it again? Let me see how you get yourself off? You always come so much, it’s such a treat. That’s it, good boy, _good boy_ , Geralt, ah, _fuck_.”

He gasps when Geralt does, as Geralt starts to come in messy spurts. His hips jerk, almost causing Jaskier to lose his balance so he has to brace himself on Geralt’s chest, and he looks down, eager to see how he coats himself in a mess, until it tapers off, dribbling over his fist. Geralt is groaning, finally losing his inhibitions, shaking all over.

Jaskier tugs his hand away, drags his tongue over the mess, before covering Geralt with his own body to the best of his ability and kissing him.

It’s a shit kiss, honestly, Geralt is too overwhelmed to really kiss back, mouth slack and open, eyes looking like he’s miles away, but Jaskier gives it his best effort. He pets Geralt’s cheeks, his hair, stroking his hands down his arms, and rubs their noses together, humming nonsense.

“So good,” he croons at last, shifting off and pulling Geralt as close as he can manage, trying to wrap around him like an octopus. “So good, I’m so pleased, you did so well.”

He never lets go, keeps stroking and petting and heaping praise, until Geralt shudders in his arms and presses closer.

“There you are.” Jaskier is practically cooing at him, and he’s probably going to get shit for it later, but he’s never one to turn away an advantage while he has it. “It’s alright.”

Geralt groans, finally wrapping his arms around Jaskier and squeezing him tight. Jaskier doesn’t mind, merely runs his hand through Geralt’s hair in response, working on untangling it. He’ll stay like this for hours, as long as it takes Geralt to come back to himself, trying to ease any embarrassment he might feel.

“It’s alright. I’m here, you’re okay.”

Geralt eventually pushes his head against Jaskier’s hand. Jaskier smiles, sleepy.

“Geralt?”

Geralt grunts, arms tightening briefly.

“How are you feeling?”

It only gets him another grunt, but he laughs a little, nonetheless. Any verbal response is a good response.

“I think the lesson was well received, then. When you’re able, I want you to tell me what you learned, tonight?”

He falls quiet, and merely keeps up what he’s doing. Geralt relaxes slowly in his arms, tension bleeding out with every caress, and Jaskier thinks of how he’s going to get a fresh bath readied, and how he’s going to keep Geralt from being sulky the next couple of days. Turning him inside out like he just has only works for so long.

Geralt mumbles something inaudible against his chest.

“What was that?”

“…not to speak before I think.”

“Hm. And?”

He’s starting to sound like Geralt with all this humming he’s doing.

“Not blaming others for my mistakes.”

It still sounds like it’s torn from him quite painfully. Jaskier takes pity on him.

“Very good. Those are indeed some of the lessons you learned tonight, and I’m very proud of you for it. I hope you’ll be able to come to me more willingly in the future, when you need help.”

Geralt doesn’t respond, but Jaskier doesn’t press. Instead he untangles himself a little. It tears a bereft kind of noise from Geralt’s throat, and Jaskier shushes him softly.

“Just getting you something to drink. I won’t even leave the room.”

He eases from Geralt’s hold, but feels Geralt’s eyes on him the entire few seconds it takes him to find a flask of water in their bags. He also grabs an apple and a knife, and then slides into bed, settling against the headboard and depositing everything next to him. Geralt pushes into his lap, resting his head on Jaskier’s stomach, and Jaskier pets him with a hum before uncapping the flask and urging Geralt to drink in small sips.

He also drinks some himself, because he shouldn’t pamper Geralt and then completely neglect himself, but he makes sure Geralt gets most of it. Then he starts slicing the apple into bite size pieces and feeds them to Geralt, coaxing him to eat despite his initial reluctance.

Geralt will thank him for it in the morning. Possibly. He might also leave stomping and huffing and not talk to Jaskier for the next few miles, but Jaskier is used to his fits. He’ll always come around. Knows he needs these things, as much as it pains him to be vulnerable.

Eventually, though, he puts the knife and the flask and the core of the apple on the nightstand for later and blows out the candle on the nightstand. Urging Geralt to shift so he can lay down, he draws Geralt back into his arms. Geralt curls into him, and Jaskier hums.

“I really am very proud of you.” he mumbles into the dark.

“Hm.”

“Yes, yes, I’ll shut up now.”

Geralt’s mouth presses against his shoulder, curved into a smile.

**Author's Note:**

> will i ever write from a pov that isn't jaskier's? unlikely.


End file.
